The Brothers
by Unicadia
Summary: Two of Les Amis are really brothers - but even they don't know it. Slightly AU. T for violence.
1. Prologue: In Which We Meet the Brothers

**Hello everyone! Just some inspiration disclaimers you can skip over (unless, of course, this kind of thing interests you). This is based off of the Brick, the anime series Shoujo Cosette, the 2012 movie, and an old French movie. I was also inspired by some fics on here. :p BTW, I was not aware that a similar story also called 'Brothers' was entitled such until afterwards. My apologies; the repeat was unintentional.**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

A woman in a tattered shawl walked down the Paris cobblestones, which were turned to a riverbed by the pouring rain. She sank against a wall and coughed into the stonework. The dark night shrouded in looming clouds pressed down on her and the young boy whose hand she gripped, and she cringed further into the wall. Sucking in a shaky breath, she looked down at the small bundle she clutched in her other arm. Then she lifted her head, squinting through the rain and misty dark. She coughed again, and held the bundle closer to her wet bosom. "Come," she whispered to the boy, and they sloshed down the street. The boy slipped, and the woman almost went down herself, trying to catch him while still holding her burden. Staggering back up in the mud, they continued on their way.

At last the woman came to the hospice, and located the _tour,_ a small opening in the building fitted out with a covered ledge. She blinked back the rain and tears, and, pulling back the torn blanket of the bundle, kissed her newborn son's face. Then she placed him inside the _tour_ and rang the bell outside. She watched as unknown hands took him and disappeared within.

The woman sniffled and coughed again. Blood speckled her hand. She wiped it off on her dress and picked up her other son. "You look after your brother now, hm?" She kissed him, smiling through the rain. Then she placed him in the _tour_ and ran the bell again. As the unknown hands returned, the boy's dark eyes widened, and he held his arms out to his mother.

"Maman!"

Tears running down her cheeks, the woman shook her head, her hand to her mouth as she backed away. "Goodbye, my dears."

Panic filled the boy's frail voice. "Maman!"

But she turned and hurried back into the relentless rain and misty dark.

Sister Constance on the other side of the _tour_ took the weeping child and set him on a table. She noticed he wore a thin silver chain on his left wrist. Looking at the baby, she saw he also wore one. She wondered why the mother hadn't already sold these. Sister Evangeline, who was tending to the infant, shook her head at the boy. "He's too old to be here." She pulled something from the baby's blanket.

It was a soggy scrap of paper, the words written on it too run together to make anything out, except for this last bit: These two are brothers. Please try to keep them together.

Sister Evangeline snorted. "Well, if she thinks we can comply with every little-"

"Oh, he's only a couple years older," said Sister Constance. She was new to the hospice, and her heart reached out to these two and their poor mother.

"Then you can care for him." Sister Evangeline swaddled the baby. "Heaven knows we have enough work to do here already."

The following morning, the children were baptized under the gray sky, and Sister Constance christened them.

No one expected anyone to adopt the boys. They were just two more of the hundreds already there in the hospice. And adoptions were rare anyway. Sister Constance looked after the little boy as Sister Evangeline ordered, keeping him with her wherever she went. Individual attention was scarce, and the child flourished. His little brother, however, was taken to the infirmary only a week after admission.

About a month after the two children came to the hospice, a gentleman visited, wanting to adopt a boy as a birthday present for his wife, since they couldn't have children. Sister Constance elected her charge and presented him to the gentleman. "He's very well-behaved." She stroked his dark curls affectionately. "He has a brother, some years younger. It would be nice to keep them together."

The gentleman laughed as the boy examined his cane. "I like him. But I'm afraid I can only take one. My wife's never had a child around before, and two at once might be overwhelming."

Sister Constance nodded, watching the gentleman produce a candy from his pocket and give it to the boy. She could not be picky. This was a once in a lifetime chance for her charge and it might never come again.

The gentleman hoisted the boy up. "Does he have a name?"

"Yes." She told it to him and he looked at the child.

"Let's keep it. It suits you," he said, grinning. He put the boy down. "Does he have any things to pack up? I'd like to go now."

"Nothing." Sister Constance hugged the boy and kissed his cheek. "Would you like to go with this man? He'll be your father . . . and you'll have a mother, too. And you'll live in a house."

"A big house," the gentleman added.

The boy frowned, thinking. "I can't 'tay wif you?"

"No, baby. I was just taking care of you until you got a family of your own."

His frown deepened. "Whad 'bout wittle broffer?"

"He can't go with you." Sister Constance tried not to cry.

"I hafta takare of 'im."

"I'll take care of him."

He thought some more. "Can I come back if I don' wike it?"

"Sure," said the gentleman, twirling his cane and smiling.

The boy nodded, looking at the floor. "Ok."

Sister Constance hugged him again. "Goodbye." The gentleman scooped the boy up and left the hospice. Sister Constance waved as they drove away in a carriage. He was safe now. If only his brother could be as blessed.

About a week later, Sister Constance, working at the paperwork she was sorting, was interrupted by a young couple who stood in front of her desk. "We'd like to adopt a baby."

Their rich clothing spoke of their station. Sister Constance's heart leaped. Perhaps here was a chance for her infant . . . but he was still in the infirmary, slowly worsening every day. Who would want to adopt such a puny, sick child? Sister Constance dutifully led the couple into the crowded, noisy nursery. The young woman cried over every single baby. Sister Constance hesitantly approached her. "There is a sweet little boy I would love to see adopted," she ventured. "He's a little sick, though. But would you like to see him? He's absolutely precious, with beautiful blonde hair . . ."

"Oh, yes!" cried the woman, to Sister Constance's surprise.

The man came up behind his wife. "I thought you said you wanted a girl."

"I can change my mind, can't I? Bring him in, dear!" she told Sister Constance, who hurried over to the infirmary.

She came out again bearing the child, who coughed so hard his little face went all red.

"Oh, the poor thing!" said the woman, fairly snatching the baby out of Sister Constance's arms. "He's got a cold?"

"The flu, but he's also suffering from malnutrition."

"Oh, well we must take him." The woman looked at her husband. "Please, Félipe. After a few weeks of good food and Doctor Jacques looking after him, he'll be all well."

The man looked doubtfully at the baby. "Wouldn't you rather get a bigger, healthier child?"

"No. I want this one." The woman turned to Sister Constance. "What's his name, dear?"

"I've been calling him Eugene."

The woman grimaced. "What an ugly name! I'll change it. And thank you so much, dear. We'll take him."

"No, thank you, madame," said Sister Constance, joy filling her heart. "Thank you."

The couple started to leave, when Sister Constance remembered. "Wait!" They stopped and looked back. "I just wanted to tell you that he has an older brother who was adopted a little earlier." She told them the name of the family, and the man smiled and nodded.

"Yes, we know them. They're good friends of ours. What a coincidence."

"Someday we'll tell him," said the woman, gazing down at the baby.

"Yes," whispered Sister Constance as she watched the couple leave. "Someday, tell him."

* * *

 **And my deepest apologies to anyone named Eugene who read this. I actually love the name; sue the nasty woman if you must.**


	2. In Which Several Characters Almost Die

_Some years later . . ._

The sharp rapping on the front door drew Adelaide Combeferre out of her dreams. She half sat up in bed and shook her husband's arm. "Etienne, there's someone at the door."

He made no sound, but slid off the tiny bed and stumbled out of the bedroom. From back inside, Adelaide called, "Etienne! At least put on a coat."

He took his faded blue coat off the rack, pulled it on, unlocked the door, and opened it. "Enjolras? What the devil are you doing here at this hour?"

"Business, Combeferre. What else?" The tall, stunningly blonde man smiled awkwardly. It was unnerving seeing his right hand man in nothing but night clothes and a coat, but that's what he got for coming over this late, or rather, this early.

"Well, come in. I'll light a lamp."

Adelaide Combeferre lay awake, listening to the hushed voices in the kitchen, catching words such as revolution, and General Lamarque the People's Man, and a funeral, and barricades. Adelaide knew about her husband's revolutionary ideas, and how Lamarque had died a couple days ago, though she had heard the latter from her friend, Mirielle Lavoie, not Etienne.

But the whispers wafting in from the kitchen frightened her, and she wondered what all this would mean for her, Etienne's, and their unborn baby's futures. She rubbed her stomach. Any day, any day . . . but why now during all this uncertainty?

At last she fell asleep, long before Monsieur Enjolras left and Etienne hung his coat up and lay back beside her in the bed.

* * *

The following morning, Sacha Feuilly went to the fan shop he worked at. He sat down behind his worktable in the backroom to put the finishing touches on his latest fan. The front door opened and he heard Monsieur Giffard say, "Good morning, monsieur."

"Good morning. May I see Monsieur Feuilly, please?" He recognized his friend, André Courfeyrac's, voice, and he paused.

"Of course. Sacha!"

Feuilly stood up and hurried into the front room. "Hello, Courfeyrac!"

André Courfeyrac grinned impishly as he twisted one of his perfect dark brown curls. "So, do you have anything worthy of an engagement present? I will only take something you did."

"You're proposing to her today?"

"Yep."

Feuilly looked around the room at all the fans, a finger to his mouth. He walked over to the window and selected a pale pink fan decorated with pictures of roses and gold chains. "How about this one? I made it last week. I know how she loves the color."

Courfeyrac examined it, a slow smile spreading across his face. "It's perfect, Feuilly. I'll take it. How much?" He reached into his waistcoat pocket.

Feuilly glanced at Monsieur Giffard, who nodded. Turning back to Courfeyrac, he said, "It is a gift, my friend."

"Oh, come now, I don't have to work for a living."

Feuilly wrapped the fan up and pressed it into Courfeyrac's hands. "It's a gift, with my blessing."

"Fine." Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. "Thank you."

But after he left, Feuilly discovered ten francs in his pocket which had not been there before.

* * *

Musichetta Tremblay stood in front of the apartment door, smoothing her dress. She paused once when she heard a muffled curse from within. She adjusted the daring crimson bonnet Hyacinthe had bought her and knocked on the door. "It's me, Chetta! I'm ready for our picnic." Normally she would have waited at her own house, but it was getting late, and she couldn't wait any longer.

A moment's pause, and then Fernand Laigle's voice came, uncertain. "Um . . . well, I guess it would probably be best if you came in."

Musichetta frowned, hesitated over the doorknob, then turned it and stepped into the room. She gasped.

Laigle, still in his night clothes (she ignored this) crouched on the floor over the prostrate figure of Hyacinthe Joly (also in night clothes).

"Bossuet, you've killed him!"

Laigle, also known as Bossuet, frowned as he brushed his hand over Joly's pale forehead. "No. I woke up and found him like this."

Musichetta knelt beside him, trying to control her breathing. "He's not-is he-?"

"Just fainted." Laigle glanced over Joly, then pulled a piece of paper from his right hand.

"What's that?" Musichetta put a gloved hand to her mouth.

A thin smile permeated Laigle's lips as he studied the paper. He handed it to her. "Doctor bill. Just look at those numbers. I suppose that's the answer to our mystery."

Musichetta read over the bill. "Cholera indeed! If he had only listened to m, he wouldn't have to pay those 20 francs for the medicine. Oh, but my poor Hyacinthe! Suppose you take this to the meeting tonight and ask the others to pitch in and help pay it off?"

"I don't think so, Chetta. If he's going to invent all these sicknesses, he'd be better left to reap the consequences himself. Maybe it will pull him out of the hypochondria once and for all."

"Well, we can't just leave him here," said Musichetta, feeling better. "I'll wet a cloth to revive him."

Laigle caught her arm. "I'm sorry, Chetta. You're too soft on the boy. Here's how you do it." He stood and filled the wash basin with water. Then he pulled Joly up and dragged him over to it. Before Musichetta could stop him, Laigle dunked Joly's head into the basin with one quick, precise movement.

Joly flung himself away from the basin and into Laigle with a long gasp. Water from his blonde hair sprayed across the ceiling (and lightly dusted Musichetta and Laigle as well). Joly clutched the edge of the table bearing the basin, breathing hard and trembling. Laigle, wiping off the bald part of his head, broke into a hearty laugh. "So you really are alive, Joly! Ready to go on our picnic now?"

Joly whirled around, still shaking, his face red. But when he saw Musichetta, white and dimply and absolutely gorgeous in her daring crimson bonnet, he took a deep breath and steadied himself. "I'm sorry, darling," he said, pushing his wet curls from his eyes.

An awkward silence followed, and suddenly Musichetta blushed. Then Laigle blushed, and Joly, who was a little slow, asked, "Why are you blushing?" He smiled, thinking Musichetta was swooning over him (again), but Musichetta hesitantly pointed to his sagging night clothes, and then he blushed.

"I-I'll be right outside, Hyacinthe dear," Musichetta managed as she shut the door behind her.

Laigle looked at Joly and giggled, and Joly looked at Laigle and glared. "What are you laughing at? Don't you realize I could catch my death of cold like this?"

"I'm only laughing at 'dear Hyacinthe' in his wet pajamas!"

Joly fumed. "I told you not to call me that. Only Chetta gets to." Twisting his mouth in irritation, Joly ran his hand through his hair and frowned at the water droplets on it. "Why were you trying to drown me anyway?"

Laigle held up the now rather soggy doctor bill. Joly's face went red again. "Oh, right. That."

* * *

"Enjolras hates me," Mathieu Grantaire muttered as he walked down the street with Alexandre Bahorel.

"And why do you say that?"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"Then why'd you bring it up?"

Grantaire shrugged and wandered toward a wine shop. Bahorel steered his friend clear of it. "Nice ring."

Grantaire laughed. "It's not a ring." He pulled it off his finger and handed it to Bahorel. It was a tiny silver chain, the kind worn by infants.

Bahorel snickered. "Why do you still have this?"

"I don't know. It's pretty. Reminds me of my mother."

Bahorel snickered again and handed it back. "So, you think something big's going to go down tonight at the Musain?"

"Yeah, I guess." Grantaire's tone told Bahorel he could care less if the Café Musain blew up.

"Come on, R! Barricades, cannons, a noble cause!" He stopped and turned Grantaire toward him. "Look me in the eyes and honestly tell me you don't like explosions."

Grantaire did not look Bahorel in the eyes and shrugged again. "We're all going to die."

Bahorel grabbed Grantaire by his hair and slammed him against an alley wall. "Don't ever say that again."

Grantaire rolled his eyes. Bahorel glared at him another minute, then let him go, anger still burning in his face. "Now then. Let's go find some lunch."


	3. In Which Grantaire is Sensible for Once

Evening came upon Paris, and Jean Prouvaire sat in the dark of his room, which was lighted by a solitary lamp on his study. His head rested in his arms on the table as he stared at the ever-changing flame. In front of him lay a stack of several sheets of paper, all filled with Prouvaire's sweet verses. He twirled half a daisy stem in his mouth.

Suddenly he sat up with a loud, "That's it! Victory for Jehan!" and descended upon the topmost paper with violence and a quill.

Downstairs, his parents, eating dinner, glanced up at the ceiling at Jean's cry. Madame Prouvaire shook her head. "That boy gets stranger every day, Félipe. You think we should-"

Monsieur Prouvaire waved his fork. "No, he's fine, Agathe. He's happy, he's healthy. He's fine."

Jean Prouvaire actually wasn't as fine as his father supposed. He was suffering from unrequited love and it was driving him almost crazy. All his poems were for her only.

Having finished his latest poem, his masterpiece, Prouvaire gathered his writing things and packed them in his satchel. He stood for a while doing nothing, a little at a loss.

Then he flew into a frenzy as he pulled the room apart, trying to find a coat or a hat. He found neither, and he barreled down the marble staircase, satchel and long, messy blonde ponytail flying behind him. "Bye, Maman! Bye, Papa!" And he crashed out of the house, leaving the door open. The butler closed it, as he did every single evening.

"And what does he do all night with those rowdy students?" Madame Prouvaire said, taking a sip of her wine. "Does he even eat? He's so skinny."

"He's fine." Monsieur Prouvaire beckoned a maid over. "He's a man now. He can take care of himself." To the maid he said, "He's probably made a mess of the hall upstairs again. Please go see to it."

Meanwhile, Jean Prouvaire hurried down the dark streets to the Café Musain. He tumbled headlong into Feuilly at the door. His satchel flew out into the street and a passing carriage ran over it.

"Nooooo!" Prouvaire wailed, struggling to get out from under Feuilly, who was frantically checking his own satchel to make sure his fans weren't crushed. At last Prouvaire managed in rolling Feuilly off of him and (unintentionally) into the gutter. He leaped to his feet and threw himself at his satchel, almost getting run over by another carriage. Feuilly, coming to his senses, wrenched Prouvaire out of the street.

"Prouvaire," said Feuilly, breathing hard. "Are you all right?"

"Who cares about me, are my papers all right?!" Prouvaire shuffled through the contents of his satchel with blood-shot eyes.

"I think your bag protected them." Feuilly pointed to the muddy leather.

Prouvaire checked it and sank against the wall of the Musain. "Oh, thank God."

"Come on. We're late." Feuilly dragged Prouvaire to his feet and maneuvered him into the café.

"Hello, Jehan! Hello, Feuilly!" called two girls sitting at a table. The one knitting something that looked like a hat was Mireille Lavoie, and the one playing with the strings of her crimson bonnet was Musichetta Tremblay.

"Hello," said Feuilly, bowing to them.

Prouvaire was suddenly lost in thought and didn't notice the women.

"Look! André proposed to me this afternoon!" Mireille cried, extending her hand for them to see the ring on her finger.

Feuilly took her hand and examined the ring. "It's beautiful." He smiled at her. "Congratulations."

The two men receded behind a door in the back. A long passage connected the main part of the café to the back room where the Friends of the ABC met. Women were not allowed there. Feuilly opened the door and he and Prouvaire were greeted with cheers.

"We were starting to think you weren't going to show up!" laughed Courfeyrac. "Mireille made ham and cheese sandwiches for us as a surprise!"

Prouvaire and Feuilly sat down at a table in the corner with Grantaire, Prouvaire clutching his satchel to his chest. Grantaire watched him, his eyes swimming, his black curls disheveled and a little damp. Prouvaire slipped a piece of paper from his satchel and set up his inkwell and quill pen.

"Gonna write a poem?" Grantaire slurred, leaning over the paper and spilling some wine onto it.

Prouvaire gagged at the reek of alcohol on Grantaire's breath, but squeaked out, "Notes." He pointed the quill at Enjolras, the leader of the group, who was talking to Combeferre and Courfeyrac at another table. Feuilly looked incredulous that Prouvair really was not going to write a poem.

"Ah, yes," Grantaire murmured, and sighed.

"You're looking awfully pale, Joly," said Bahorel at a farther table, a sly grin on his face as he stuffed a ham and cheese sandwich in his mouth.

Joly flashed an incredibly fake smile at him and said, "I don't want to talk about it."

"You really don't want to hear it," laughed Laigle, and received a light smack on the hand.

At the last table, all Courfeyrac wanted to talk about was how he had proposed to Mireille Lavoie.

"Courfeyrac," said Enjolras, glaring at a map of Paris. "Focus. So, Combeferre, what do you think? You've had all day."

"I think we need to ask everyone to see if they're willing to do it." Combeferre looked up at his best friend, his pale blue eyes quiet and serious. "You know it is asking a lot."

"Would you do it, Etienne?" whispered Enjolras.

Combeferre smiled his rare smile. "Why are you calling me that? But more importantly, why are you asking me? You know the answer." He placed his hand on Enjolras' shoulder. "I will follow you to the ends of the earth, my chief."

Enjolras couldn't help smiling back. "Thank you, friend." He turned to Courfeyrac, who had a dreamy look on his face. "Let's do this." He faced the rest of the room and raised his voice. "Come now, Friends of the ABC!"

Everyone stopped talking and looked up at him. "General Lamarque is dead. He was a man of the people, the only one in Parliament. Now the people have no one."

They had all heard this speech many times before in the past couple days.

"Then what would you have us do, Enjolras?" asked Laigle.

"It will be dangerous. We may not all survive. You need not do it if you don't want to." Enjolras took a deep breath. "Tomorrow is Lamarque's funeral parade. We will rally the people and build a barricade."

Jean Prouvaire paled and Bahorel whooped, slamming his fist into the table and making Joly and Laigle jump in their seats.

"You still make it sound so easy," said Feuilly. "They'll send the National Guard after us. We're outnumbered."

"The people will join us," said Enjolras, his eyes burning ferocity. "I know they will."

"And what if they don't?"

All heads turned toward Grantaire, slumped over Prouvaire's notes. A long silence followed his words.

Enjolras frowned in irritation. "They want change as much as we do. They will not abandon us!"

All the men stood and cheered, even Prouvaire, who was blushing for no reason, but Grantaire did not rise and stared at his wine glass like he would like to crush it.


	4. In Which There is a Lot of Girl Talk

In the main room of the Café Musain, Mireille and Musichetta talked about their day. ". . . and then he took my hand, covered it in kisses, and when he stopped, he slipped this ring on my finger." Mireille held out her hand so the candlelight sparkled off of it.

"You're so lucky," sighed Musichetta, gazing at it. "I've been waiting years for Hyacinthe to propose to me. I wonder if it's even crossed his mind."

"Have I shown you the new fan André gave me?"

"What a coincidence! Hyacinthe gave me a new fan today, too!"

The girls showed their fans to each other. Mireille giggled at Musichetta's. "Are those . . . hyacinths?"

Musichetta blushed. "Yes. Hyacinthe said he had told Feuilly he wanted flowers on it, but hadn't specified what kind. He looked so embarrassed when he gave it to me." She smiled at the rich purple fan. "I love it, though. It will always remind me of him."

"I heard something funny happened with you this morning," said Mireille, picking up her knitting again. "Please tell me, Chetta!"

"Who told you? Oh, but I don't mind." Musichetta leaned forward, her eyes shining. "So I went to Hyacinthe and Bossuet's apartment, because of the picnic. I went in, and there was Hyacinthe lying on the floor passed out! Bossuet figured it was because he saw his doctor bill and fainted. It is quite the hefty sum. I was horrified at the time, but now when I think of dear Hyacinthe splayed out on the floor in his night clothes-" She broke off with a giggle.

Mireille managed an awkward smile, a little in shock that Musichetta could speak of such things. Joly in night clothes! Good heavens . . . she had never seen André in night clothes.

The back door opened and the men drifted out one at a time, so as not to attract attention. Who knew what spies of King Louis-Philippe lurked there? Joly hurried over to the two women as Musichetta continued her story.

"Then Bossuet took poor Hyacinthe and dragged him to the wash basin" (here Joly came up behind Musichetta and began depositing kisses on her neck) "and dunked his head into the water! You should have seen – oh! Hyacinthe!" She glared at him as he looked up.

"What?" he asked, grinning like an idiot.

"I'm trying to tell a story, and you are being very distracting with your smoochy lips." Joly acknowledged this by kissing her thoroughly on the lips. "Hyacinthe!"

Mireille watched with a tight mouth, trying not to laugh. Courfeyrac walked over to her and winked. She knew not to ask how the meeting went until they were alone.

Laigle sidled up and gently pulled Joly off of Musichetta. "Come on. We'll walk you home, Chetta."

Musichetta glared at Joly, who gave her a stupid smile. But when he turned to leave, Mireille saw Musichetta blush and dimple as she followed him and Bossuet out.

In the back room, Enjolras and Combeferre lingered, wrapping up their plans. At last satisfied, Enjolras rolled up his papers and tipped the waitress. Combeferre packed his writing things and looked over the tables to make sure no one had forgotten anything. He came across a tiny silver chain.

"Look, Enjolras," and he held it up.

"What is it?"

"And infant chain. I have one. Someone else must also." He put it in his pocket. "I'll give it to its owner at the next meeting."

"Combeferre . . ."

"How old is everyone?"

Combeferre frowned. "This is random. Why do you want to know?"

"Just tell me."

"Well, Courfeyrac's 25, Laigle and Grantaire are both 29, Prouvaire's 23 . . . Feuilly just turned 28, Joly's 27, Bahorel's 31, and I'll be turning 27 in . . . three weeks, two days. And I assume you know you're 26."

"Mm. Thank you."

"Enjolras, what are you thinking about?" even though Combeferre already knew the answer.

"I just wanted to know how old everyone will be when they die."

* * *

Combeferre unlocked the door of his house and softly opened it. But he had hardly hung his coat up when Adelaide rushed out of the bedroom and threw her arms around him. "Etienne!"

"Hey, Posie," he murmured into her hair before gently kissing her on the lips. "How was your evening?"

"I finished the baby's socks. Do you want to see them?" Then she quickly added, "And the meeting?" She smiled and stroked his soft blonde hair.

He took a deep breath. "We're going to riot during General Lamarque's funeral procession tomorrow."

Adelaide clutched him harder. "Riot! Oh, please don't, Etienne! Not now! Not when . . ." She lowered her head.

Combeferre placed his hands on her stomach and sighed. "They need me."

"'They'?"

"The people of Paris, of France. Courfeyrac, Joly, Feuilly. Enjolras."

Tears filled her eyes. "What about me? Etienne, you know what they do with traitors!"

"I cannot abandon them. Posie, give it to the Lord. Whatever happens, He will take care of it." He kissed her forehead. "Whatever happens." He smiled. "I'd like to see those little socks now."


	5. In Which Joly Catches a Cold

Combeferre lay awake in bed a long time, watching the room grow lighter and lighters. He looked down at Adelaide curled up next to him. He couldn't wait any longer. He stroked her hair and whispered, "Posie, wake up."

Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled.

Combeferre looked away, unable to confront her beautiful, trusting eyes. "I have to go now."

"But . . . but the funeral's not until this afternoon, is it?"

"Yes, but Enjolras wants to meet with me beforehand." He got out of the bed and dressed. Adelaide sat up and played with the sheets.

Ten minutes later, Adelaide had risen and made Combeferre eat something. He put on his coat, his hat, and located his pistols.

"When will you be back?" Adelaide asked, trying not to cry.

"I don't know. Maybe a couple days. Odette François will be over soon to help you. Please don't hesitate to call for the midwife." He drew her close and kissed her hair, her forehead, her lips. "Goodbye, Adelaide. The Lord is with you."

"Goodbye, Etienne."

And then he left.

* * *

Enjolras loathed his first name. As the leader of a revolutionary group, it was embarrassing, ludicrous, that he shared a name with the hateful king. Only his two closest friends, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, knew his name, and they never used it.

Enjolras now stood in the Luxembourg Park, awaiting his Guide. He was not nervous or frightened about the coming events, only worried.

Worried they would be overrun before they even had a chance.

Worried that some of his friends would lose heart.

Worried that maybe it wasn't worth it. Maybe. It was just a barely pricking doubt, which he did not let interfere with his plans. There were more angry citizens in Paris than king's pawns. The people would join them and they would put an end to this nightmare of a regime.

* * *

"Jean! Where are you going with that gun?" Madame Prouvaire caught her son's arm as he sped toward the door.

"I'm going to the Place de la Bastille. Lamarque's funeral parade is passing down there." Jean Prouvaire touched his mother's hand. "Please let me go."

"Why do you need a gun for a funeral? You're only a boy, Jean."

Jean looked pained. "Maman, I'm 23. I'm not a child anymore. Please let me do this."

"Let him go," said Monsieur Prouvaire, coming into the room. Madame Prouvaire reluctantly released Jean, who bolted outside. Monsieur Prouvaire laughed softly. "He needs to find his own way in the world."

* * *

"Yeah! Riot!" shouted Bahorel, leaping down the street.

Feuilly grabbed him with a loud, "SHH!" He glared at Bahorel and whispered, "You want to get thrown in prison before you've even fired a gun, you idiot?"

"Relax, little man. I know what I'm doing."

Feuilly fumed, not being especially tall, but definitely taller than Joly and Prouvaire. "Let's just get over to the Place de la Bastille. The procession's going to start soon."

"Let's just hope everyone's there." And Bahorel grinned like he knew something Feuilly didn't.

"What do you mean? Grantaire? I don't think anyone's worried about Grantaire."

Bahorel shrugged, still grinning, and linked his arm through Feuilly's, dragging him all the way to the Place de la Bastille.

* * *

Courfeyrace had wanted to go to the parade with Marius Pontmercy, his best friend, but he was off wandering about Paris, preoccupied with his beloved Ursula or Colette or whatever her name was. But in the absence of Marius, Courfeyrac decided to go with Joly and Laigle, not just because they were such dear friends of his, but also because he wanted to play a little joke on Joly. He knocked on their apartment door.

"Joly! Bossuet! It's your favorite Monsieur André Courfeyrac!"

He waited ten minutes, twice getting dangerously close to breaking the door open, until he decided he would have to pull his prank later.

He went to Mireille Lavoie's house, where she was waiting for him. She was going with him whether or not anyone else did. "Are you boys really going to build a barricade?" she asked on their way to the funeral.

"Probably." Courfeyrac slung his arm around Mireille's shoulders. "You and the other girls can be there to see to food and the wounded."

"Wounded? André, you don't really think it will come to that?"

"I do."

* * *

Joly and Laigle had no wish to be present during the funeral parade. Or at least Joly, who had caught a cold, which he blamed on Laigle's dunking his head in the wash basin.

"Well, let's go get some lunch, then," said Laigle, feeling guilty, both about Joly's cold and the fact that they weren't with their friends.

"We'll det up and do whed Edolras deeds us," said Joly. "He deber said adythig about showing up at the parade."

So they headed down to the Corinth, a little wine shop they knew well, which was located at the end of a street. Two smaller streets branched off on either side of it. The two friends sat down at a table upstairs and the proprietor brought over two bottles of wine and a plate of oysters.

"I should have proposed to Musibedda yesterday." Joly mournfully sneezed into Laigle's handkerchief.

"Why didn't you?"

"I wadded to wait udtil the rebolushud was ober."

"Hello, friends. How's the wine?"

Graintaire slid into the chair next to Laigle, and the proprietor put another bottle on the table.

"You're not going to the parade, R?"

"I've seen parades. I've seen funerals. And Enjolras hates me. I think I'll just wait here with you two." He took a swig directly from the bottle.

They talked about many things, especially Grantaire, but I will only relate to you the part of their conversation which pertains to our tale. As Grantaire was punctuating an exceptionally boring story with some wild hand motions, Laigle noticed the chain looped around his finger.

"Grantaire, what's that? A new ring?"

Grantaire brought his hand down and allowed Laigle to examine it. "Baby bracelet."

"Why are you wearig it dow?" asked Joly, tipping back his chair as he checked his tongue in the hand mirror he always carried with him.

"I have one of these," said Laigle, and Grantaire ignored Joly. "I usually carry it around with me, too, like a good luck charm, though it doesn't work. I lost it yesterday. Don't you have one, Joly?"

"I don't dow."

Laigle ran his hand through what little dark curls he had and steadied Joly's chair as it almost fell over backwards. "We should head over to the Place de la Bastille."

"If Enjolras really needed us, he'd already be here, dragging us by our throats." Grantaire, having not only emptied his bottle, but also Laigle's and Joly's, called for some more wine. They talked, and they drank, until Grantaire became quite drunk and the other two became quite restless.

Suddenly, the sound of running feet and many voices filled the street below. Laigle ran to the window and looked down.

A throng of people wielding weapons of all sorts stormed down the street, led by none other than Louis-Philippe Enjolras and the rest of the Friends of the ABC.

"Courfeyrac!" Laigle called, waving. "What's going on?"

"We hijacked the procession-"

"It was awesome!" Bahorel yelled.

-"and we're going to build a barricade. We just don't know where."

"How about here in front of the Corinth?"

"Hey, Enjolras! How about here in front of the Corinth?"

"Yes! Let's go!"

Laigle and Joly hurried out of the shop, leaving Grantaire slumped over the table. A frenzied rush ensued as people threw furniture out of windows, others ran around grabbing anything they would find, and still others piled the furniture, bricks, wood, and whatever else there was, in front of the Corinth.

In half an hour, the barricade was finished, and Enjolras finalized it by lodging a big red flag in it. "We'll be ready for them when they come."

Behind the barricade waited the Friends of the ABC, a handful of volunteers, a few women, and Gavroche, a 12-year-old street urchin and beloved of the Friends.


	6. In Which We Learn More About Courfeyrac

By evening, many barricades had been erected, giving fire and hope to those at the Corinth.

"Cheers, Joly," said Courfeyrac, handing the hypochondriac a glass of wine.

"Cheers yourself," said Bahorel, knocking the glass as he walked by and soaking Joly's chin.

Combeferre, who was seeing to it that everyone had a gun, stopped when he saw little Odette François rolling bandages with Mireille and Musichetta. "Mademoiselle, what are you doing here?" he whispered.

The girl frowned, and then realization dawned on her. "Forgive me, Monsieur Combeferre! You asked me to stay with your wife, and, oh . . . I thought you meant tomorrow night! Forgive me . . ."

"Don't worry about it," Combeferre murmured, looking very much worried. His usually soft features hardened, and he hurried away. "I need to leave," he told Enjolras in the upstairs room of the Corinth. "Adelaide's all alone. I'll find someone to take care of her and then I'll return."

"I need you here, Combeferre. I can't spare you."

"I can go," said Pierre Tremblay, Musichetta's brother.

Enjolras hesitated. They didn't know when the National Guard would come after them and they needed every man until the people joined them. He looked at Combeferre, his loyal, steady guide, his pale blue eyes filled with pain. Enjolras did not understand the mutual love between a man and a woman, but he did understand duty, and Combeferre had a duty to his wife.

"You may go, Pierre."

"Thank you, Enjolras," said Combeferre, his face relaxing, and even allowed himself a smile.

Enjolras then turned on Grantaire, still slumped over a table. "Grantaire, wake up! This is no place for you! You are a disgrace and an insult to the Cause. Get out of here."

"I can fight," Grantaire mumbled. "Please let me stay with you. I won't get in the way."

"Monsieur Enjolras!" cried Gavroche, running up the stairs.

"What is it?"

But at that moment, a shrill shriek pierced the evening air.

"Bossuet!" Joly yelled, tearing up at his reflection in the hand mirror. "My tud is yellow! I'b goid to DIE!"

"You're not going to-"

"I AB!"

Joly streaked out of the wine shop (past a sniggering Courfeyrac pretending to be innocent) and into a slick mud puddle just outside the door. He slipped and almost face-planted into it, when Laigle burst out and grabbed Joly, slipping himself as he did so and getting a face full of mud. Only Joly's shoes and the hems of his trousers were soiled. "Tank you, fred." And he sneezed.

Laigle teetered out of the puddle. "I'll always be here for you." Then he confronted Courfeyrac. "You put something in that wine to color Joly's tongue, didn't you, Monsieur _de_ Courfeyrac?"

"Ingenious, wasn't it? And the best part is, is that I found it at his favorite apothecary shop. The irony!"

"I think Joly has enough problems without you feeding him."

"Oh, come on! What's the fun of having a hypochondriac around if you can't tease him?"

Enjolras, certain no one got killed, turned back to the street boy. "Now, what is it, Gavroche?"

"See that volunteer over there?" Gavroche pointed out the window to a middle-aged man adding things to the barricade. "He's a spy. Inspector Javert."

Enjolras patted him on the back. "Good work, Gavroche. Grantaire! Out!" He went downstairs where Laigle and Courfeyrac were still arguing.

"He's a little sap! What else am I supposed to do?"

"Leave him alone? And wait a minute. Prouvaire's also a sap, but you don't-"

"Actually, I do."

"Bossuet! Courfeyrac!" cried Enjolras. "I need you. Come here."

In a couple minutes Enjolras and five others surrounded the man. "Inspector Javert, we will bring you inside," said Enjolras, taking the man's arm.

The man threw Enjolras off and bolted. Courfeyrac lunged at him and caught his arm, Laigle grabbing hold of the other. They wrenched him back to Enjolras. Gavroche giggled. "You are so naïve," spat the inspector. "You are all throwing your lives away. Stupid boy!"

"If we are throwing our lives away, we are throwing them toward the future." Only Courfeyrac laughed.

They dragged the inspector into the wine shop and tied him to a support beam. Jean Prouvaire, pitying the man, brought him some food and water. The inspector smirked when he saw him. "And how am I supposed to eat that with my hands tied?"

"I could . . ."

"No, I don't think so."

Feeling awkward (or rather, more awkward than usual), Prouvaire set down the food and water by the inspector. He turned and froze.

It was her. The girl he loved. Éponine Thénardier. Gavroche's sister. She wore boy's clothes, but Prouvaire would be the last person fooled by the disguise. She was cleaning guns in the corner. Prouvaire longed to say to her, "Éponine! Don't you remember me? I found you unconscious in the street with a fever. I took you to my house and cared for you. I fell in love with you then. Oh, don't you remember me?"

But Prouvaire could not bring himself to walk over to her, and Éponine did not look his way. Even if she had, she would not have recognized him. She had eyes only for Marius Pontmercy, who didn't love her.

Éponine left the building and Prouvaire followed her, vowing at least to not let her out of his sight.

Night fell and the rhythmic pounding of feet told those on the barricade that the National Guard had finally come. The captain dreaded his job. He knew the students would be no match for his men or the cannons, once those came. He dreaded the massacre to come.

But more than that, he knew his nephew was on the barricade.

"Surrender your weapons and disperse, or you will be declared enemies of the king and we will open fire on you!" he shouted.

"Never!" replied a young voice.

The captain hardened his jaw. One of his lieutenants glanced at him, wondering why he hesitated. At last he gave the terrible order. "Fire!"

The world exploded as a volley of bullets rained down on the barricade. "Aim and shoot!" shouted Enjolras. "Save your bullets!" The students returned fire, passing down their guns to be reloaded in exchange for loaded guns before shooting.

Courfeyrac, who had been easily defending the right side, caught a bullet near his shoulder and collapsed. Feuilly carried him inside as he yelled, "I can still fight! Let me go, you humiliating fan-maker!" Mireille tended to him amid his protests.

But now the soldiers were climbing up the barricade itself, coming down hard on those who defended it. Bahorel sprang up with a wild laugh and bayonetted a man aiming for Enjolras, just before getting a bayonet between the ribs. Bahorel shuddered, the crazy light fading from his eyes, and fell forward.

"Alexandre!" screamed Odette François, who had been watching from the door of the wine shop. Feuilly, returning from bringing in Courfeyrac, grabbed Odette before she threw herself into the fray.

Suddenly a dark figure bearing a torch and something else leaped onto the barricade.

Jean Prouvaire realized it was Marius Pontmercy proabably the same instant Éponine did. She darted up as a soldier aimed at Marius. In a moment, Prouvaire knew what she was going to do. "No!" he cried and lunged after her. He took hold of her ankle, but he didn't have time to tighten his grip before Éponine shook him off, grabbed the end of the gun pointed at Marius and pulled it towards herself as the soldier squeezed the trigger.

Everything in Prouvaire went cold and his heart lurched within him. He watched Éponine slide off the barricade and caught her in his arms as Marius, oblivious to what had just happened, yelled to the soldiers, "Back off or I blow the barricade!"

Everyone froze. The light of the torch Marius carried illumined the gunpowder keg he held.

"And yourself with it!" shouted the captain.

Marius, his eyes as wild as Bahorel's had been, smiled and nodded. "And myself with it." He brought the torch close to the keg.

The captain twitched. "Retreat! Retreat! Back to the street!" He decided to wait till morning, when the cannons would arrive. He wondered where his nephew was.

Marius, trembling, climbed down from the barricade with Enjolras' help. "Well done, Marius. You saved us all."

Combeferre, though, fleeing sick to his stomach, snapped at Marius as he went by, "What do you think you were doing? My life's not yours to risk, Marius!"

Enjolras glared at him, and Combeferre felt as though he had been hit. He sank onto the ground, running his hands through his hair. He hadn't meant to sound selfish, but he had been thinking of Adelaide.

"Repair the barricade!" ordered Enjolras, and several men set to work. Feuilly let Odette François go, and she ran to Laigle and Joly, who were taking Bahorel's body inside. She wrapped her arms around him and sobbed into his hair. Joly briefly saw in his mind Musichetta in a similar position over his own body, and shivered.

Beside the barricade, Prouvaire, seeing Marius approach him and Éponine, backed off and watched from a distance, trying not to cry. Marius knelt beside Éponine and she handed a letter to him. She spoke strained, loving words to Marius which could not penetrate his heart, but which Prouvaire would have treasured forever had they been spoken to him. Close by, Gavroche wept silently.

In a few moments, Éponine Thenardier lay still, and Marius kissed her forehead. Combeferre came forward on Enjolras' command and carried her to the Corinth. Prouvaire followed in a dream. Combeferre laid her beside Bahorel and left. Prouvaire hesitated, then dropped down next to Éponine and cried. Like a child, he thought. He stroked her thick dark hair, her pale angular face, her cold rough hands. Then he bent over her and kissed her lips, his tears falling onto her face.

Inwardly, he accused himself. Why hadn't you been quicker, Jehan? Why didn't you stay closer to her?

"What was her name?" came a soft voice.

Turning, Prouvaire saw the inspector, not looking quite so hard anymore.

"Éponine." He wiped his eyes, unashamed.

"You will end up like her. You know that, don't you, boy?"

Prouvaire knew he had it in him to declare that he was not afraid, that he was willingly giving his life for his country, and much more, but he didn't feel like doing it. He did not look at the inspector and walked out of the Corinth.


	7. In Which Some Candles are Lit

**Kathleen: Thank you so much! I'm really glad you're enjoying it. :)**

* * *

"All the women must leave," announced Enjolras. "The back ways are safe for now. Go while you can."

Mireille looked at Courfeyrac, hoping he would insist on her staying, but he nodded and squeezed her hand. "Go. I'll see you out."

She touched his arm. "But you're hurt."

He laughed. "I'm going to keep fighting no matter what. Escorting you will be nothing."

Combeferre pulled Odette off of Bahorel and led her, still weeping, to one of the barricaded side streets off the Corinth. Courfeyrac, Mireille, Laigle, Joly, Musichetta, and the last two women followed.

"Goodbye, André," said Mireille, kissing his cheek. "When this is all over-"

"-you'll have your June wedding. And to celebrate our victory, how about a picnic?"

Her eyes sparkled. "Yes."

Courfeyrac brought her close to him to kiss her, but she stopped him. "Wait." She undid her necklace and pressed it into his hand. He smiled and then he kissed her.

Musichetta, watching, felt a familiar pang of jealousy. She looked up at Joly, who was fiddling with his cravat. "Well, goodbye, Chetta," said Laigle, and he kissed her hand.

"Farewell, Bossuet. Please be careful."

He bowed to her and paused a moment by Joly before returning to the wine shop.

Still Joly did not look at Musichetta.

"Hyacinthe?"

Now he did.

"Goodbye, Chetta."

"Goodbye."

She hesitated, waiting, hoping, but then, disappointed, she turned to go.

Suddenly Joly caught her hand, drew her back, brought his arms around her, and kissed her lips. Musichetta wondered if he remembered his lingering cold. She didn't mind, though. When they parted, Joly smiled and whispered, "You didn't think I'd let you go without a kiss, did you?" He kissed her again, keeping his arms tight around her.

Tears flooded Musichetta's eyes. "I can't lose you."

"Don't worry about me. Listen. When we're out of this, we'll go to the most expensive restaurant in Paris. We'll eat, we'll drink, and then we'll dance."

"What about that bill?" Musichetta could not help asking.

Joly's face turned red again. "You come first, my darling. Always first."

Then why don't you propose to me? Musichetta thought. She did not know that Joly planned on proposing to her at the restaurant.

"I love you, Chetta. So much."

"I love you, Hyacinthe."

He kissed her one last time and let her go.

Courfeyrac helped Mireille over the small barricade. Mireille took Odette's hand and waited for Joly to help Musichetta over. She paused, her gaze locked with Courfeyrac's. Then she turned and went down the dark street with the others.

"Everyone should sleep a couple hours," said Enjolras after the women had left. "Courfeyrac, are you able to take the next watch?"

Courfeyrac, putting Mireille's necklace on, laughed. "Of course!"

Only Laigle, Combeferre, and a few others took advantage of sleep, at least at first. Marius gave a letter to Gavroche to deliver to his Cosette. Joly, remembering Bahorel and Odette, sat down to write a letter for Musichetta. Laigle slept with his head on Joly's legs. Feuilly engraved the words "Vivent les Peuples!" on a wall facing the Corinth. Prouvaire sat by himself writing a poem for Éponine before falling asleep on his paper.

Enjolras walked among his awake and sleeping men, doubt and sadness creeping into his heart. Where were the people? They might live as Feuilly proclaimed, but would they give their lives as those around him were? All these young faces, friends – would they be giving their victory shout on their barricade tomorrow or would they be lying in the pools of their own blood? He stopped by Combeferre, and gazed down at the quiet, sleeping face of his gentle Guide. Oh, Etienne, where will we be tomorrow?

When Joly finished his letter, he put it in his coat pocket and fell asleep beside his best friend. This is what the letter said:

 _My dearest Musichetta,_

 _If you are reading this, then that means I am dead. I do not want you to wallow in your grief. Marry a man worthy of you and try not to dwell on what could have been._

 _In the top drawer of my dresser, you will find a little red box. It's for you. I should have given it to you long ago, but I was saving up money, and I wasn't about to ask for help from my parents. Please forgive me._

 _I love you more than you'll ever know, Chetta. When I'm with you, I can feel that horrid hypochondria melt away. Yes, I know I'm a hypochondriac. The prospect of death makes a man come face to face with reality, including those lies which he's told himself. Please forgive me of this also. I am not worthy of you, my darling. I marvel so often at your love for me. I wish I could have done more for you._

 _Love and kisses forever and ever,_

 _Hyacinthe Joly_

When Feuilly finished his engraving, Enjolras was waking the sleeping men. On an impulse, Feuilly stopped him from rousing Prouvaire. "One minute." He pulled out his sketchbook (not the one he used for fan design ideas) and drew Jean Prouvaire.

* * *

Mireille, Musichetta, and Odette went over to the Tremblay house to spend the night. Adelaide Combeferre was already there and the four women gather in the parlor. Mireille and Musichetta doted on Adelaide and made her as comfortable as possible. But after a while they all sat quiet, each lost in her own thoughts.

Odette sat with Adelaide, weeping into the older girl's sleeve. Musichetta, sitting beside Mireille, did not move, but her face was ashen. Mireille tried knitting, but at length set it down. Then she got an idea.

"Why don't we light candles? One for each of the men on the barricade. Then we can pray for them."

Adelaide and Musichetta heartily agreed, but Odette did not pause in her tears. There would be no candle for her boy.

A maid brought out a package of candles, and the girls carefully lit them and arranged them on a table. As the night wore on, Odette mercifully fell asleep from exhaustion. Try as she might, Adelaide could not stay awake and soon followed Odette.

Mireille and Musichetta talked a little, about anything but the the one thing they cared about at that moment. But mostly they just sat and watched the fifteen or so candles burning in the dark room, sporadically kneeling down and sending a prayer for their boys up to God.

At about four in the morning, Musichetta joined the other two in slumber. Mireille braided Musichetta's hair, and then Adelaide's, and then Odette's. Right before she, too, fell asleep, Pierre Tremblay said he was going back to the barricade to see what was going on.

Late in the morning, Mireille woke up. Musichetta was the only other one awake, her face still ashen. Adelaide and Odette leaned against each other, care-free for a little bit longer.

Pierre Tremblay opened the door and came in, a gust of air from the movement blowing out all the candles but one.

* * *

 **Ah, this is so fun! I just figured out how to do breaks in this thing, so I went back and edited some past chapters to make them clearer with that magical horizontal line. :p**


	8. In Which Combeferre Distrusts Valjean

The morning dawned cold, but promised another sweltering day. The men awaited tidings from the other barricades and maybe of a civilian reinforcement. Gavroche came running back from his errand for Marius. With him was an old, but powerfully built man, who was Cosette's father. He had come as a volunteer. "We're the last ones," Gavroche managed between breaths. "All the other barricades have fallen."

"We're alone," Combeferre whispered.

"But the people-" Feuilly started.

"They aren't coming," said Enjolras. "If they were, they'd have been here already. We are all alone."

Silence followed his words. The cloud of death sank a little lower over them. Enjolras took a deep breath. "Anyone who wishes to leave may. No one will think the less of you. We are standing in a graveyard here."

No one moved, except for Courfeyrac, who scratched his nose, and Joly, who sneezed. Enjolras quickly blinked back the tears threatening to come out. "Then let us fight to the death as brothers! And this is not the end! We have lit a flame here, which will someday burst forth into a glorious blaze, igniting every heart! We will not die in vain!"

A cheer like a roar rose from the barricade, so fierce and full of passion, that the Nation Guard around the corner heard it and trembled. The captain prayed that his nephew had enough sense in his thick head to leave that death-hole.

"Friends, prepare yourselves!" shouted Enjolras.

They all grabbed their guns and positioned themselves on the barricade. The soldiers slowly came out and formed behind the bulwark they had built.

Combeferre could not concentrate for the first time in his life. All he could think of was Adelaide, left alone with a child. She'd never get a job. She would descend into poverty and maybe end up on the streets. Without knowing why he chose him, Combeferre approached Marius Pontmercy. "Marius, can you do something for me?"

"What is it?"

"If you somehow make it out of this, can you please look after my wife? I know it's odd, but my family moved away to England a while ago, and it will be a long time before they hear of what happened. Though I'm sure they'll be more than willing to take Adelaide in, I know she won't want to leave France, even if she did obtain enough money for the voyage." He lowered his head. "Tell her to marry again. But can you look after her until then, please?"

Marius didn't see why or how he could survive, but he nodded all the same. "Of course, Combeferre."

On the barricade, Courfeyrac asked Prouvaire, "Do your parents know you're here?"

"No. All they know is that I went to Lamarque's funeral with a gun." He tried to laugh. "No doubt Maman's saying to Papa, 'Félipe, I told you he shouldn't go! He's still a child!'"

"Your father's name is Félipe?" said Joly. "So's mine!"

"Yeah, and you're both small, blonde, eccentric saps!" laughed Courfeyrac.

Prouvaire smiled. "Maybe we're brothers."

"No one will miss me," Feuilly murmured sadly. "I'm an orphan."

"How's our ammunition supply?" Enjolras asked Laigle, who was helping make bullets.

"Very low. We got another batch coming, but it's not going to be ready for a while. Not before they attack again."

"I can go and collect ammunition from the bodies outside the barricade," Marius offered.

"No, let me," said the man who had come with Gavroche. "I am old. I will be no great loss."

Suddenly Courfeyrac called out in a frantic voice, "Gavroche! Get back here!"

Enjolras leaped onto the barricade and looked over. Gavroche crept amongst the fallen bodies of the soldiers, gathering bullets and singing to himself as he went.

"Gavroche, that's enough!" Enjolras ordered.

A bullet whizzed past the boy's ear. He paused, then moved on, ignoring Enjolras.

"Gavroche!" Courfeyrac screamed, lunging over the barricade. Combeferre and Enjolras grabbed him and wrestled him back.

Several more bullets hit close to Gavroche, who kept creeping farther away, still singing.

Another gunshot split the air and the boy collapsed. "No!" shrieked Courfeyrac, kicking and smacking the ever-patient Combeferre.

"I'm going to get him," said Marius, pulling off his coat.

"I'm coming with you," said Prouvaire in a tremulous voice.

Gavroche crawled into a sheltered corner, streaking the cobblestones with blood. Marius and Prouvaire slipped out and edged along the sides of the buildings, bullets pelting the walls and street. They found Gavroche slumped in his corner, clutching the bag of ammunition. Marius picked him up and the boy mumbled something before he went limp.

"Gavroche," wept Prouvaire, tears streaking his dirty face.

Marius shook him. "Get a hold of yourself, Prouvaire. We have to get back." He handed the bag to Prouvaire and they crept back the way they had come.

About a hundred feet from the barricade, a bullet hit Prouvaire in the leg and he stumbled to the ground. "Prouvaire!" Marius stopped, his death very close, but for sweet Jean Prouvaire who shoved the ammunition bag at him.

"Take it and go!" he gasped.

Marius grabbed it and ran, tears blinding him, almost tripping and dropping Gavroche. He crawled over the barricade, depositing the boy's body on the ground. "He's dead."

Enjolras took Marius' shoulders. "Where's Prouvaire?"

Marius shook his head and vaguely waved his hand. "He got shot outside the barricade."

Pain flared in Enjolras' blue eyes. "Jehan."

* * *

Jean Prouvaire lay in the street, too hurt to go anywhere. He wondered if someone would come get him.

"Hello, boy."

Two soldiers emerged from the alley opposite where he lay. Prouvaire watched them with dull eyes as they walked over, yanked his gun out of his pocket, and wrenched him to his feet. He grit his teeth against the searing pain which flared through leg as he put pressure on it.

The solders tied his hands behind his back and pushed him down the alley and up a couple streets until they came to the rest of the National Guard. "We found this," one of the solders told the captain, dropping Prouvaire at his feet.

The captain looked down at the exhausted boy and decided that after this insurrection was put down he would resign. "What is your name, son?"

"Jean Prouvaire."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"If you renounce this fool-hardy revolution and declare allegiance to the king, I will set you free, Jean Prouvaire."

Prouvaire felt light-headed and dizzy, the pain from his leg almost unbearable, but he hardened his jaw and said, "No."

The captain cursed under his breath. "I don't want to kill you, boy. You have your whole life ahead of you. Is this worth it?"

"Yes."

The captain closed his eyes. "Blindfold him and show his friends we've got him."

Prouvaire's heart almost stopped. Blindfold? Show him to the others to break their morale? No, this wasn't how he wanted to go. He didn't want to die alone. Actually, if God had let him have his way, he would have died last night alongside Éponine.

The soldiers wrenched him to his feet again and roughly tied a cloth over his eyes. A single tear rolled down Prouvaire's cheek as the darkness swallowed the beloved light. The same rough hands shoved him forward, his wounded leg buckled, and he fell. He heard the captain say, "Be gentle with him. He's only a boy."

"Only a boy." How many times had his mother said that? And why did everyone called him a boy? Was he really that immature?

The soldiers stood him up, not as roughly as before, and led him to the area of the street between the bulwark and the barricade.

"Prouvaire!" he heard Joly scream.

"Truce! We have a hostage!" came Combeferre's voice. "Let's trade!"

Behind him, Prouvaire heard the click of many cocking guns. There would be no trade. He raised his voice so his friends could hear him. "Goodbye, my comrades! You are the greatest friends a man ever had. I am honored to have been part of this Dream." His breath came short, and he saw Éponine, lying in the bed at his house after he had brought her there, her eyes closed, her face peaceful. He had almost kissed her then. Maybe, just maybe, if he had, she would have . . . He swallowed. He was glad he had been able to finish his masterpiece. " _Vive la France!_ "

"Fire!"

When the smoke cleared, gentle Jean Prouvaire lay dead in the street.

Enjolras trembled, his mouth tight. Combeferre clenched his fists and sank to the ground. Courfeyrac, already weak with grief, abandoned himself to crying. Joly's eyes filled with tears and he fainted into Laigle's arms. Something snapped inside Feuilly. He whipped out his gun and pointed it at Inspector Javert, who had been brought out. "I'm going to kill him," he seethed, his usually calm brown eyes fierce.

"Let me deal with him," said the old man, stepping forward.

Enjolras nodded. "Give him your gun, Feuilly."

Feuilly twitched, but relinquished the weapon to the man, who led the inspector away.

"No," Combeferre whispered, without quite knowing why. He stood and went over to Enjolras. "No."

"No what?"

"Don't let him deal with the inspector."

"Why?"

Combeferre's head hurt. He wasn't even entirely sure himself, though. Foreboding filled his heart. "I don't know."


	9. In Which the Brothers are Revealed

A single gunshot broke through the still morning air. The old man returned alone and nodded to Enjolras. Combeferre watched him, a gnawing doubt in his heart. Laigle revived Joly and everyone gathered at the barricade again, weary and grief-stricken.

"This is your last chance!" called the captain, feeling sick to his stomach. "Surrender or die!"

Enjolras levelled his gun. "We will never surrender!"

The captain thought of his curly-haired nephew and shouted, "Cannons!"

Two huge cannons rolled up and soldiers went about charging them.

"Aim at the men on the cannons!" ordered Enjolras. "Fire!"

The soldiers manning the cannons went down, but others soon replaced them. The first cannon fired and blasted a hole in the barricade, instantly killing two students and Feuilly. "Second cannon!" yelled Enjolras. But that, too, went off, crippling the barricade and allowing the National Guard to advance. They trampled the red flag beneath their feet as they came over.

Courfeyrac fought the soldiers off with a mad ferocity, despite his injured shoulder, saying with every shot, "This is for Jehan!"

"Courfeyrac, look out!" cried Combeferre, seeing a soldier on the ground aim at him. But Courfeyrac didn't hear or didn't care, and the bullet through his heart. Courfeyrac crumpled onto the barricade, and he remembered Mireille's joyful face, tears in her eyes, when she saw the ring he'd slipped on her finger.

"Oh, André!" she had cried, flinging her arms around him.

"How about we have the wedding in two weeks?" he had said, twisting her auburn around his fingers.

"But that's when Odette's getting married!"

"So what? First her wedding and then ours. We'll be celebrating all month."

She had laughed and kissed him on the lips. "Then in two weeks."

The sweet memory faded along with everything else into darkness.

Combeferre, not feeling like himself at all, looked down and saw a wounded soldier lying close to him. The young face framed by blonde hair reminded him of Jean Prouvaire. He reached under the man and lifted him up. Two bayonets pierced his chest, another his abdomen. The world misted over, and from far away he heard Enjolras screaming, "Etienne!"

He would never see his child.

He would never kiss Adelaide again.

And then, for some reason, he thought of the little chain still in his pocket. He had never returned it to its owner. He raised his eyes to heaven and died.

"Retreat to the wine shop and barricade the door!" shouted Enjolras through his tears. Laigle, Joly, and the last of the students and volunteers ran after him. Marius and the old man seemed to have disappeared.

But just as Laigle reached the temporary safety of the Corinth, he looked back and saw two soldiers almost on top of Joly with their bayonets. He turned around and knocked Joly down, falling on top of him as the bayonets struck.

Laigle grunted, the pain stealing his breath away, but he didn't let go of Joly, not even when the soldiers stabbed a second time. When they left, he gasped, "Joly, are you all right?"

No answer. Laigle painfully eased himself off of his friend and choked. The bayonets had gone through him and into Joly, one probably killing him instantly when it struck through his throat. Laigle rested his head on top of Joly's blonde curls. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I tried."

He remembered their last picnic with Musichetta. Was it really only two days ago? Joly had been feeding her grapes and kissing her between each one. It had been rather awkward for Laigle, who had blushed with embarrassment for Joly and then some, but now he recalled the memory with a wistful smile. Musichetta Tremblay would never become Musichetta Joly. Joly. His best friend now lay dead beneath him. In a few more seconds, Laigle was also dead.

Enjolras raced up the stairs of the Corinth to the second floor. He stood there waiting, but only soldiers joined him up there. The horrible realization that he was the last one fell upon him. With this knowledge came a cold steadfastness. He stood straight and looked his killers in the eyes.

"Wait!"

Grantaire stumbled over, his cheeks blazing red.

The captain caught his breath. "Mathieu?"

Grantaire turned and gave the captain a wry smile. "Hello, uncle. Good to see you." He stood beside Enjolras, head held high.

The captain did nothing. His men looked at him, wondering what he would do. He met Grantaire's eyes and saw nothing but fierce loyalty where cynicism usually lurked. "Fire."

In that last moment, Enjolras saw them all.

Combeferre stopping him from hitting a snide policeman.

Courfeyrac letting out his bubbling laugh at nothing in particular.

Prouvaire's eyes alight as he talked passionately about his flowers.

Feuilly sketching directly on a table at the Musain.

Joly blushing when Combeferre praised one of his medical papers.

Laigle tripping as he attempted to catch a falling wine glass.

Bahorel laughing as he was being dragged to prison for yet another public misdemeanor.

Marius always coming late for a meeting, always with something new to say about the glorious Cosette.

And Grantaire, his eyes on Enjolras, rambling about nothing at all. Enjolras didn't really hate him. They fell side by side as friends.

And down below, outside the Corinth, lay those other brave men: Sacha Feuilly, André Courfeyrac, Etienne Combeferre. Marius Pontmercy, unconscious from a head wound, was taken way and rescued by the old man, the only survivors.

And Hyacinthe Joly and Fernand Laigle, dying together, never knew that they were brothers.


	10. Epilogue: In Which Prouvaire is Noble

In the following weeks, Marius received various items from the parents of his friends. Among these were Feuilly's sketchbook (which was actually given to him by an official who wished to remain anonymous) and one of Jean Prouvaire's last poems.

The sketchbook contained drawings of all the Friends of the ABC, portraits, pictures of their meetings, outings, their griefs, their joys, their road to revolution, all documented in Feuilly's fluid lines. But there was only one picture of Feuilly himself, a half-finished self-portrait. That was it. The very last drawing in the book depicted Jean Prouvaire on the barricade, fast asleep on his paper.

The poem which Marius received was Prouvaire's masterpiece. His parents, seeing the inscription "For my friends" on it, gave it to Marius without looking at it. And Marius, reading it, discovered that not all of Jehan's last poems were for Éponine:

For my friends

 _Brothers_ by Jehan Prouvaire

4th of June, 1832

 _Enjolras the Chief._

 _He lit the flame._

 _He showed us the future_

 _And did not fear it._

 _He embodies a dream –_

 _The dream of all men,_

 _From all ages and days –_

 _To be free._

* * *

 _Combeferre, the gentle guide –_

 _Without him, the world would collapse._

 _He quietly shows us the way._

 _He channels the passion of Enjolras._

 _He keeps us from tearing Paris apart,_

 _With no less devotion to the Cause than the rest of us._

 _He sustains us with his words,_

 _His thoughts, his directions._

* * *

 _Courfeyrac, our Center._

 _He brings us together._

 _He brings understanding._

 _He brings light._

 _He could make the flowers sing_

 _If he only tried hard enough._

 _He laughs,_

 _And the world laughs with him._

* * *

 _Bahorel is our thunderstorm._

 _He bellows over everything._

 _He tears up the street_

 _And laughs when they try to fix it._

 _He may be brash,_

 _But he stands up for what is right._

 _He fights for the abased,_

 _And he cries for the oppressed._

* * *

 _Bossuet or Laigle –_

 _Both names mean a selfless man,_

 _Who gladly takes all misfortune,_

 _If it means sparing another._

 _Humble and quiet,_

 _Practical and loving –_

 _He does not deserve_

 _All the calamities which befall him._

* * *

 _Joly understands the value of life._

 _He sees each breath,_

 _Every heartbeat,_

 _As a gift from God._

 _Since he so comprehends the world,_

 _He is the happiest of us,_

 _Asking us to join him_

 _In his celebration of life._

* * *

 _Feuilly, orphan though he is,_

 _Has more family than any of us._

 _France is his family,_

 _And he lives close to her._

 _He knows the people._

 _He relates to their plight._

 _He loves his motherland_

 _More than we could ever hope to._

* * *

 _Grantaire has ideas of his own_

 _And doesn't hesitate to speak them._

 _Amongst his many words_

 _Are hidden treasures._

 _He watches us_

 _When we don't know it._

 _He watches Enjolras,_

 _The one thing on earth he believes in._

 _Apart we are nothing._

 _Together we are brothers._

* * *

 **Thank you for reading my little story, I hope you enjoyed it. :)**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**


End file.
